


tapestries and tides

by joanofarcstan



Series: Tolkien Gen Week 2020 [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Light Angst, Sort Of, and we love suffering, but you know, it's happier than most other things i've written, this is the silm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25153027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joanofarcstan/pseuds/joanofarcstan
Summary: Eärwen is a weaver, trained by the Sea herself with kelp, and her kin with twine. Here is how she weaves the tides of tragedy.
Relationships: Angrod | Angaráto & Eärwen, Eärwen & Aegnor | Ambaráto, Eärwen & Finrod Felagund | Findárato, Eärwen & Galadriel | Artanis, Eärwen & the Sea
Series: Tolkien Gen Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818994
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15
Collections: Tolkien Gen Week 2020





	tapestries and tides

_I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend._

—J. R. R. Tolkien, _The Two Towers_

____________________________

Eärwen weaves.

She weaves the Kinslaying at Alqualondë with her Telerin hands, skilful from the hours of weaving baskets out of twine and kelp by the rocking waves. In this one, the faces of the Ñoldor are lit with fell fire, and shaded with a darkness that creeps into the tapestry without having any particular point of origin. It is spontaneous and self-sustaining, and Eärwen cannot decide if that is also true for the darkness Melkor has brought on Arda.

She decides it is better to think of darkness as unable to sustain itself, always seeking fuel and fodder to consume lest it dissipate; but she does not know if that is because she truly believes so or if she fears for herself, for her family—husband by her side and children across the sundering Sea—, for Arda if it be otherwise.

She weaves the Kinslaying again, and this time Arafinwë’s people take part in the nightmare. Their swords match their eyes, gleaming sharp and fey, hard compared to the gentle shimmering of the stars, as they slaughter her people where they stand on lamplit shores. Arafinwë himself holds a blade stained with blood, a strange and terrible light in his eyes as the Havens burn.

Eärwen is glad that at least he is not laughing, as Fëanáro was in the other one. Still, she does not want to think of what might have come to pass had Arafinwë arrived at the shores earlier. _Whose loyalty would he have chosen?_ She knows—no, she _hopes_ , she _thinks_ , but she does not _know_ —that he would choose her, and that his principles would stop him there, but still the thought drives her thread and shuttle.

She burns that one. Burns it to ash, and then casts the ashes into the Sea. Even after, she stands there for a long time, longer than it takes Arien to rise and set and rise again and Tilion to follow her, only watching the waves lap at the shore and the tides rise and fall.

The shores are white, pristine white. It seems wrong. Her people were slaughtered here. Their blood stained the sands. And yet the Sea has cleansed them of all memory, leaving them blank. As if nothing had ever happened. As if the greatest and cruelest crime of Elf on Elf had never been committed.

And the Sea, who had calmed her, whispered to her, rocked her to sleep on a small ship while she sailed Aman’s waters in her youth now only seems deceptively calm. The greatest friend of all has transformed into an enemy, only waiting for a lull in Eärwen’s concentration to raise its tides and batter the shore-rock of her mind with memory.

This is the Sea that lapped gently around her ankles, laughed with its whitecaps, and loved with its sea-salty spray; and this is the Sea that sundered her from her children.

(Eärwen’s first love was the Sea. Before she met Arafinwë, before her brothers fisted their chubby hands into her skirts, before she held her own children in her arms, she knew the Sea. She knew the Sea as one knows a lover, and loved the Sea as one loves a kindred spirit. But now Eärwen and her Sea have run the course from lovers to strangers, and distance to regret.)

She weaves the Sea dyed red with blood, and the Sea raging to destroy the murderers of her people. She weaves the Sea stealing her children from her, and thinks that even the Sea cannot keep them from her forever.

(That is not quite true.)

When her eldest is reborn, Eärwen learns that _reborn_ does not mean _healed_. Her son’s hands still shake, and he still sometimes starts at the smallest noise, and she knows—although he never tells her, because she is his mother and mothers know such things about their children without needing to ask or be told—that he still dreams of teeth whose sole purpose is rending flesh, and eyes that glow hateful yellow in the dark, always hungry and never satiated.

Eärwen weaves.

When Angaráto—the Iron-Handed, Eärwen now learns he was called—walks with her again, she learns that _defeat_ does not mean _despair_. He tells her of the wars in Beleriand (he always spoke more readily of his pain than his brother), and he spends long hours staring at the fire just as she did the Sea, and she knows that he still dreams of the burning rivers and pines and the marching of thousands of feet to war.

Eärwen weaves.

When her daughter returns to the shores from which she left, on a grey ship with grey sails with the rising sun behind her, Eärwen learns from her youngest child—the child who now has a child and grandchildren of her own—that _survival_ does not mean _living_. Galadriel—for that is her name now, chosen from the Telerin name Alatáriel her husband gave to her—carries with her the weariness born of three kinslayings, three wars, and thousands of years in Middle-Earth, and Eärwen knows she dreams of bringing down a fair-faced golden elf before her nephew falls in love with this deceiver.

Eärwen weaves.

When her youngest son never returns from the Halls, Eärwen learns that _rest_ does not mean _peace_. His siblings tell her of how their brother the Sharp-flame loved an _adaneth_ , and swore to never wed for her sake, and Eärwen knows that he dreams of seeing his lady again in the place where light gathers in Arda Healed, for even if she cannot meet him again, she raised her son and she knows his heart.

Eärwen weaves.

(The final tapestry that chronicles the griefs of her kin is thus: Eärwen, lit lantern in hand, and her two older boys stand on the pier, watching the grey ship approach, cradled by the gentle waves of the Sea. An empty space lies beside them where the lantern's flame should be. On the ship stands a tall maiden, her hair the mix of gold and silver that yet radiates the light of the Trees long-gone.

And Eärwen makes her peace with the Sea, and weaves a tapestry of loving tides again.)

**Author's Note:**

> now i want to learn how to weave...
> 
> thank you for reading! comments are always welcome, here or on my tumblr @[laurierliberal](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/laurierliberal)!


End file.
